


they only let him go so long

by alea_archivist (the_aleator)



Series: A Mere Appendix [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Light-Hearted, One Shot, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:13:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22760773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_aleator/pseuds/alea_archivist
Summary: The only reason why Lestrade would visit Watson in the Yard's holding cells.
Relationships: Lestrade & John Watson
Series: A Mere Appendix [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1636375
Comments: 1
Kudos: 15
Collections: Watson's Woes JWP Entries: 2013





	they only let him go so long

It was the lederhosen that did it, and a smirk curved over Lestrade’s thin lips as he fought a snicker.

“Go ahead, Lestrade, and laugh.” Watson prompted tiredly, from the other side of the iron bars. “I absolve you.” Lestrade colored slightly as he leaned into the bars.

“You understand the irony of the thing, Doctor.” He explained, and years of literary insults bubbled up inside the narrow beam of his frame.

“The humour in the situation is not lost on me,” Watson said drily, quirking an eyebrow at the German peasant garb he currently wore.

“I took care to secure that instrument of yours in my office.” Lestrade offered, settling his hands into his waistcoat pockets. “Some of the constables were looking rather interested – what is it, anyway?” He ventured, dark eyes alight with curiosity.

“A zither.”

“Ah.”

Watson had the distinct impression that Lestrade was fighting laughter again. He sighed.

“Holmes determined that best method of surveillance was to masquerade as part of the players, to infiltrate the German side of the festival.”

“A more than adequate explanation for your outfit, Doctor.” Lestrade nodded, hanging onto the jail bars as his shoulders shook with silent laughter.

“Yes.” Watson agreed, and continued glumly, “but they knew me out at once by the cut of my lederhosen.”

“How dreadful.” Lestrade managed to say, and glee sang in the little man’s voice. Watson scowled as he slid his suspenders back up over his broad shoulders.

“How dreadful that my erstwhile roommate is not similarly sequestered.” Lestrade brightened, and said, waggingly,

“ _That_ would be the crowning moment of my career.” Both men shared a private smile, born of the mutual frustration caused by a certain Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Lestrade leaned his head closer to the bars and inclined it towards the other occupant, a rather ill-kempt beggar snoring away in the cell.

“Mind you, Doctor, just pass the word if that lot bothers you.”

The little man’s ill-concealed look of concern discomfited Watson, even beyond his state of embarrassment at his scarlet embroidered suspenders. Fortunately, the Inspector departed in a scurrying silence, and Watson settled back, uncomfortably, to sleep.

***

The smell of strong coffee woke him, and Lestrade looked grim as he passed over the dinged metal cup.

“No word of Mr. Holmes.” Watson gave him a cross look. “We’ve had no word of this Anderson either – the Yard that is – though more than one set of eyes were looking for him.”

“Oh?” Watson murmured, and reached out for the coffee secretively. Sometime during the night, he had gained several companions in the shape of a disorderly drunk, a petty thief, and a pair of twin prostitutes with a most vulgar expression on their bedecked faces, and he had no intention whatsoever of sharing.

“I thought also that I should have a word with the Superintendent about your release, Doctor, and dropping the charges.”

“That would be quite good of you, Lestrade, though I expect Holmes shall render that unnecessary shortly.” Watson explained, with a look of patient tolerance on his face that would not have looked out of place in a medieval Catholic cathedral.

“If you say so.” Lestrade said doubtfully, with a dash of gnawing worry in the quirk of his thin mouth. “Though I should be ill at ease to think you languishing in one of the Yard’s cells, waiting on Mr. Holmes.”

How could Watson explain to Lestrade that _this_ , this was all just part of the game, no matter how it looked. But what he and Holmes shared could not so much be explained as only felt with the innermost part of heart, and Watson kept his silence as Lestrade’s face fell into its usual cast of restlessness.

“It is most unlike Mr. Holmes to abdicate his duty.” The Inspector ventured again, as the set of Watson’s jaw turned mulish under the thick, reddish brown performer’s beard.

“He will come, Lestrade.” Watson said, indefatigable in his belief that Holmes was neither machine nor automaton. He knew that Holmes would come at his behest. He’d stake his life on it, and both sides of the grave bore testament to it.

Out of kindness, Lestrade held his tongue.

**Author's Note:**

> A little cracky, but still serious. The title is derived from the Willie Nelson and Merle Haggard song called "Pancho and Lefty." Written for Watson's Woes JWP #2 (use at least two of the following words: abdicate, automaton, allele, Zarathustra, zither) in 2013.


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